


060 - The Opposite to Van

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Could you do an imagine where the reader is kind of the opposite of Van personality wise and she doesn’t really get what Van see’s in her? She’s more uptight & an introvert & she loves playing the piano & as we all know Van is more chilled out & more of an extrovert?”





	060 - The Opposite to Van

For a long time you thought maybe you were asexual. You learnt about what that was in year 10, when you had an excellent health teacher that understood that sexual and romantic preferences sat on non-linear continuums. It wasn't until you hit university you realised that you did experience sexual attraction. James Rhodes. It wasn't even like he was objectively a babe. It was the combination of his magnificent piano skills, his chaotic charm, and his utter passion that you drove you crazy. Jordana, your best friend, even took you to see him play for your twenty-first birthday. Jordana almost exclusively listened to death metal, so her sitting through an entire night of piano was amazing dedication to the friendship. You cried when you saw him play, and every time he stopped to tell a story, you fell more and more in love. After James Rhodes, you had crushes on only two other people. You had a thing for Janelle Monae, and the guy that sold bagels at the market you went to every other Sunday. You were pretty sure he was gay, though. So, it was rare for you to like like people, but when you did they were usually unobtainable.

You were at the music store near your house on a Friday afternoon. You stopped to pick up some blank sheet music. You knew you could print it off the internet for free, but there was something about the notepads you liked. The feeling of each page being ripped from the rest. The thickness of the paper. When the stand it usually sat in was empty you walked to the register. There was nobody there working, but another person was leaning casually on the counter. When you walked up he turned around. He definitely looked like a musician. Scuffed boots, ripped jeans, black button up tucked into them and folded up to his elbows. He was all sharp angles and soft hair. He smiled.

"He won't be a minute, love, just getting me some strings," the guy said. You nodded and smiled politely. He was gorgeous. James Rhodes, Janelle Monae, Bagel Boy gorgeous. If you opened your mouth to speak you may have spat out butterflies. They were tearing your stomach to shreds and you'd only been near him for maybe thirty seconds. "What are you after?" he asked curiously. Oh god. Words. You'd have to form words. Audibly.

"Blank sheet music," you said but it came out as a painfully quiet whisper. You could feel your cheeks go bright red. The guy smiled gently as soon as you spoke.

"Oh! I know where he keeps that! Come on," he said and walked around the counter. When you didn't follow him he looked back. "It's alright, he's my mate. Come on," he said again. You walked around the counter and had to fight the feeling that you were breaking the law. You followed him into a small office and stood in the middle of the room as the guy searched through some boxes. He was taking a long time and you were getting nervous. What if the owner came back from wherever he was and was in fact not friends with this guy? You were a regular customer, and he knew you by name, but that wouldn’t forgive trespassing. 

"Um… Are you sure we can be in here?" you asked.

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry," he replied without looking up. He pulled out a stack of sheet music. "This what you want?" You nodded and you took a pad from him. You quickly left the room and took your rightful place in line at the register. The guy stayed on the wrong side and started to look at the computer screen. "Here, let me scan it," and he held out his fingers and wriggled them like a child. You handed it over and he scanned the barcode. He handed it back and looked at the screen. "Okay. That will be three dollars, thank you, love." He looked at you like he really did expect you to hand him money. Then, he grinned with all his teeth and you could have died. You smiled and shook your head.

"Van!" someone yelled as they walked to the counter. It was the owner. "What the fuck have I told you about harassing my customers?"

"I wasn't! Your shelves weren't fully stocked, mate. This one would 'ave taken her business elsewhere if it weren't for me. Right?" the guy, Van, asked you. You didn't want to get in the middle of this, regardless of if they were only playing. The owner stood next to Van and looked at the screen.

"Three dollars," the owner said. Van gave you a look that said see, I knew what I was doing. "He didn't bug you too bad did he? Tell you about his band? Or maybe his best mate Larry?"

"Fuck off, I don't talk about Larry that much,"

"Yeah you do," he replied as he took your three dollars.

"Larry's a legend," Van said and shrugged. He turned back to you. "I am in a band though. What kind of music do you like?"

"Van. Leave her alone, yeah? She's a pianist. She doesn't have time for your shitty guitar rock," he said to Van, and Van looked genuinely hurt. You wanted to fix it.

"I'm sure your band is good," you said. Van smiled at you. You took your notepad and receipt and said thank you and goodbye. The sound of the bell above the door ringing out your departure made you sad.

As you walked down the street you wondered what it would be like to be someone that could flirt, that could ask someone like Van out. What would it feel like to not worry about being in a room you didn't know if you were allowed to be in? What would it be like to be outgoing and smiley and larger than life? Then, a sound, someone calling after you. Probably not after me, you thought. After someone else. Except, you recognised the voice. Van jumped in front of you.

"Hey, wait," he took a second to catch his breath. "What's your name?"

"Y/N,"

"Of course it is. Pretty name. I'm Van," he said and held his hand out. You shook it and refrained from saying that you knew. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink sometime?"

You froze. Surely he'd not want to have drinks with someone that was itching to stitch the rips in his jeans back together; someone that cried in happiness the day self-serve checkouts were introduced at her local supermarket. He seemed like the type of person that would turn buying a carton of milk into a theatrical event. You were taking too long to reply, but he seemed to get what you were about. He waited patiently. You slowly started a nodding movement. You swapped numbers and floated above the clouds the rest of the way home.

…

Jordana came over a few hours before you were meant to meet Van for drinks. The phrase ‘meet Van for drinks’ sounded wrong coming from your mouth. She laughed when you told her. "You like a boy named Van? What kind of name is that even? He's in a proper rock band? Who are you?" She was right. He didn't fit in with any other aspect of your life. It did make sense though. Jordana, for example, was very alternative. You liked people like her. Loud and friendly and drenched in black clothes. You could just never be that. She had brought over clothes for you to borrow. "You should just wear your normal clothes, Y/N. He saw you buying a notepad of sheet music for fuck's sake… He knows you're a bit…"

"A bit what?"

"I don't know. You. What were you wearing?"

You had been in a caramel brown dress and a black cardigan. You didn't want to tell her that, though. "Doesn't matter. Just help me look good now!" You wore your own black skinnies tucked into boots you usually only wore in the snow. You borrowed Jordana's white lace shirt and one of her black strappy bras. You looked at yourself in the mirror. "This is very see-through,"

"Yes. That's the point, Y/N,"

"Do I look like I'm trying too hard?"

"You are trying hard. But, like, I know what you normally look like so it seems like a lot to me, but to him it's gonna be fine,"

"Why are you being so negative?" you asked, frustrated.

"I'm not. I'm honest. I'm your honest friend. I just think you should be yourself,"

"You said it yourself. He's a boy in a rock band named Van. I don't think a beige dress is gonna cut it."

…

You got to the bar way too early. Like, twenty minutes early. You stalked the convenience store across the road, pretending to read magazines. You were deeply uncomfortable in the shirt and bra, and almost started to hyperventilate when you realised you didn't know what it would look like when you sat down. Surely your tummy rolls would show? When it was the actual time you were meant to meet Van you considered crossing the road, but you wanted Van to already be there when you walked in. You didn't want the pressure of picking a place to sit and deciding if you ordered without him. He was two minutes late.

It was early in the night, only six, so the bar was not busy. Van hadn't sat down yet. He was talking to the bartender when you walked in. He smiled at you and you walked over. He naturally leant to hug you and you hugged him back. He smelt like shampoo and unwashed denim. There was maybe aftershave too, but it was so subtle you couldn't tell if it was on him or his clothes. He asked what you wanted to drink. You wanted to say something casual, like 'whatever you're having,' but you knew you'd probably end up with something you couldn't keep down. Cider, then.

You followed him through the bar and out to the beer garden. It was pretty and one of the walls was all green leaves and flowers. He sat next to it and you carefully touched the petals when you settled in your seat. He started to talk about his band before you had the chance to ask, which you were grateful for. When he finally ran out of things to say, he asked you about your music. It was probably the only subject you could easily talk about, so you were grateful for that too. Van was incredibly engaged in what you were saying. He watched you as you spoke, and nodded. When you had no more stories to tell, you went back to quietly sipping your cider. You listened to him talk about other random things. Then, there was a silence.

"You're very quiet, aren't you?" You shrugged. "I probably talk too much, so we probably balance each other out." You liked that he referred to you and him as a collective.

After one drink you went for dinner. Van asked if you cared if he used his hands to eat his sushi. You didn't, but you carefully ate yours with chopsticks. He made a mess, but it was somehow charming. It was going to cause you anxiety but then he used napkins to mop up soy sauce and loose pieces of rice. Outside of the restaurant, Van asked if you wanted to go for another drink. You nodded and he held his arm out to link with yours. He asked if he could ask you a question, and you nodded in reply.

"That top you're wearing. Is it yours?" There wasn't any judgement in his voice but your face started to heat up anyway. "I mean, you look good. Really, really good. I'm just.. It's different to how you looked the other day,"

"Which is better?" You didn't mean to say it but it slipped out from your subconscious before you could stop it.

"I think you'll look class no matter what you're wearing. You should dress how you feel comfortable, but,"

"This is my friend Jordana's," you told him pulling at it. "The bra is hers too,"

"Like I said, I'm not complaining. Especially not about the bra."

You didn't want to think about Van thinking about your bra.

…

Van took you to a different bar, and it was much busier than the first. You moved a little closer to him, and he looked over at you. He asked if you were good and you nodded. He took your hand in his and snaked his way to the bar, bought drinks, then snaked to a booth near the back. There were two other guys sitting across from each other. Van motioned for you to sit next to one, and he sat in the last free space. He introduced his "best mate" Larry (the owner of the music store was right), and his drummer Bob. As you listened to them all talk, you decided quite easily that you liked them. When they asked you questions you answered with the least amount of words possible. You didn't mean to do it, but you'd never been a great conversationalist.

You excused yourself to the bathroom and took your time fixing your hair. You looked at yourself and pulled at Jordana's shirt. The cider wasn't helping you relax. When you came out Van was waiting for you in the small walkway. He took your hand without saying anything and led you through the crowd and out onto the street. He started walking down the street.

"Where are we going?" you asked after you'd travelled a few blocks.

"I don't know. You tell me," Van said. You looked at him, confused. He stopped walking and stood in front of you. "You don’t like bars much, do you?"

It seemed obvious then that you were far too different to him for it to work out. You felt like crying, but held it in. Forever reserved; stoic. That alone was an example of the vast difference between Van and you. He wore his heart on his sleeve; you didn't. He was extroverted; you were introverted. He played guitar messily; you carefully made each note of your music drop from silence into song. He was relaxed and chilled; you were nervous and high-strung.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

"No, babe, I didn't mean-" he pulled you into a hug and didn't let you go. "I didn't mean it as a bad thing. I mean, I just… Look," he took a step back and held your face in his hands. "Y/N. You don't need to be anything other than what you are, yeah? You don't have to talk if you don't want to. Don't have to drink. Don't have to do anything. Yeah? I'm still gonna be into you. I like your little nose and that sneaky smile. I want to hear you play piano. So… we don't have to sit in a bar all night. We can do anything. Where do you want to go?"

You looked at him and his lopsided smile and his fluffy hair. You knew exactly what you wanted to do. You took his hand and started to walk to where you felt most like yourself.

…

"And you were freaked out about being behind the counter," Van laughed.

"I'm allowed to be here," you said again.

The music hall of the uni was a little spooky at night, but you spent a lot of time playing the grand piano in the space, so you felt at ease. You had a key and the alarm codes. You were definitely allowed in there. It was your second home. You pulled the bench out and sat at the piano. Van stood with his back to it, put his hands on the top, and jumped to sit on it. You looked at him.

"Sorry… Should I-"

"No, you're fine."

You started to play. It was easier than talking. You remembered Van saying performing with his band was easier than sleeping, so you knew that he knew how you felt. The music came out of your fingers fast, and you kept your eyes closed. When you finished the song you could hear Van breathe in. You opened your eyes and looked up at him. You'd never been looked at like how he was looking at you. He slid off the piano and pulled you up. The bench seat fell back on the floor with a loud thud. You flinched at the sound. He hadn't taken his eyes off you.

"You are fucking amazing," Van whispered. You weren't sure what he saw. You didn't have time to contemplate it for long. He kissed you and for a moment you couldn't kiss back. You were too shocked, too smitten. He didn't move away despite your lack of response. In the few hours he'd spent with you, he'd already learnt you took time to process. You got there though, and when you kissed back he laughed in your mouth. It seemed like a really Van thing to do. 

You spent two hours at the piano, alternating between kissing Van and showing him how to play songs. He went through the chords of one of his songs, and you translated it to piano. He sung as you played and whatever part of you was nervous and thought you needed a lace shirt and a bottle in hand was lost between the notes of music and the softness of his lips.


End file.
